


Fascinate Me

by HidingUnderaRock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Schizophrenia, Suicide Attempt, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4205688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingUnderaRock/pseuds/HidingUnderaRock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't want to be around the crazies. John doesn't want to be around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Also being published on Wattpad

The smell of cigarette smoke follows John Watson wherever he goes. His sweaters reek of it, his calloused fingers wear the burns of fire that light up the addiction. It's almost as bad as the smell of marijuana, but not quite as strong. Of course John can't help the smell, he's become so used to the fumes that not smelling the tobacco in the air is odd. 

His tobacco stained fingers clutch his new textbook as he walks down the pavement. His narrow frame slides though other bodies and keeps it's head down. His eyes dart from person to person, catching glances of wide eyes or dyed hair. He keeps walking until he reaches an ensemble of apartments in staggered rows. The paint of the buildings might have once been bright but now they have faded to dirt pastels.

John pulls out a finger print smudged key and pushes it into the lock on one of the doors in the nicest looking building. The smell of tobacco and burnt is strong when he enters. A television hums lightly in another room. He closes the door behind him and silently walks up the wooden stairs to his room. 

As he opens the door he listens for any sounds within it. His father sometimes let his "coworkers" sleep in his bed. Hearing nothing John opens the door to find his bed empty and his room even emptier. Luckily that's the way he likes it.

He tosses his book onto the bed and collapses next to it. A sigh is released  
from his lips and he closes his eyes.

Someone downstairs turns the volume up on the television. The yells of football coaches amplify immensely and John sticks his head under his pillow. A mans voice mingles in with the cheers of a televised stadiums crowd and that's how John knows his dad is in a good mood. Or a better mood than the one he is normally in. 

Football means he isn't drunk. But football also means he's more likely to go on a doctor rant. John sighs and comes up from his pillow for air. He breathes in deeply and returns to the comfy sanctuary of the pillow. 

And then the steps begin up the stairs. A creak and then solid thuds indicating a visitor to Johns room. 

"Get the book all right did ya'?" His father asks walking into the room. John comes out from his pillow and nods.

"Studied it for a good two hours after I got it." He mumbles. His father grins and takes a seat on the snow pale bed. 

"That's my boy." His father grins. Even from where he was lain John can smell the stale burst of alcohol on his fathers tongue. He may not be drunk but he has tipped a few beers.

"Thanks dad." John says. Reaching for the book Johns dad turns to glance at his son. 

"Hate to do this to you again but another business partner is coming into town tonight. The couch is yours." Johns father says. Again. Another night of hushed up sex moans and grunts from his bedroom, in his bed that he never got to have sex in himself

"That's okay dad." John says. He watches as his dad thumbs through his textbook.

"Pretty thick isn't it?" His dad asks. 'The book or your skull?' John thinks. But he nods his head in agreement. The textbook is six hundred and twenty five pages long. 

"You better keep reading it if you want to get ahead." His father remarks. Again John nods. 

"I'm going to go wait for our visitor. You grab whatever you need and head down to the couch." His father says putting the book down by John.

"Okay." John says. His fathers weight lifts off the bed and John listens as his steps fade down the stairs. John, unhappily, pulls himself off of his bed and begins to gather his supplies for his night on the couch. 

Clothes, backpack, textbook (which he would be ever so happy to leave but decides not to for the sake of his father) and a pillow and blanket. And just for his well being he puts the photo of his mother on his night stand facing down. She wouldn't want to see what his father was doing later on in the night. 

John carries all of his over night items into the living room where his father has turned off the telly. John sets his back pack down by the foot of the couch and collapses into a chair.  
He rubs his eyes and then closes them. He hears the door open and his father and a mans voice mesh together in jumbled hellos. 

He waits for his father to bring his business partner into the living room before opening his eyes. 

"John this is Thomas." His father says. The man next to him nods a head of sharp blonde and John nods his head back. 

"C'mon Thomas I'll show you where you will be staying for tonight." Johns father announces. Thomas grins and follows Johns father away from the living room up to Johns bed. Luckily John know nothing will happen for several hours, the moans and groans always happened at midnight or somewhat of that time. For now Johns ears and sanity are safe. 

John closes his eyes again. The sweetness of the dark envelope him and he is almost tempted to fall asleep until the chair but doesn't. Instead he just keeps his eyes closed and keeps the thought of consciousness alert in his mind. 

\--------------------------------  
Waking up on the couch, John sits up and yawns. He has already heard the door slam that meant his fathers "guest" had already left but he decided to sleep in a little bit more. Truthfully he needed the extra sleep. After an almost sleepless night with pillows over his ears to block out the sounds he deserved a reward.

The textbook that he had been reading lays open on the floor next to him but instead of picking it up he stands and walks over it. 

The kitchen is empty as is everything that John likes. He pulls open the fridge and pulls out an apple, in the shine of it he can almost see himself. Almost. He closes the fridge and yawns once more before filling his mouth with apple.

The house is silent around him. The noise and evidence from the night before is faded. John couldn't be happier.

Sherlock

"I am perfectly well enough to go to school mother." Sherlock mumbles. A car besides them honks their horn and he is tempted to flip the honker off.

"Sherlock Holmes I will not have you in that building until these voices have subsided. It's for your well being Sherlock." His mother replies. Her eyes are locked on the traffic ahead of the pair. Sherlock can see the cars mirroring in her eyes.

"Mother the voices are barely there." Sherlock argues. His mother doesn't listen.

"Bleeding tourist all over the place. Can't get around them." She mumbles. Sherlock sighs and sets his head back in his seat. They are going to the mental institution. 

Or as Sherlock enjoys calling it, the loony bin. He honestly doesn't want to go to the bin or school but given the choices, he'd take the latter. It isn't the fact that Sherlock doesn't want help. Goodness no. He's been trying to get rid of the voices for years. A little medication could help. He doesn't want to go because he is afraid. He doesn't want to see people halfway thinking about their actions and halfway just doing them. He doesn't want to see crazy. He doesn't want to become crazy.

"Mum focus." Sherlock says but his mother only gives him a flimsy hand wave in response.

"You are going Sherlock Holmes and that is final." 

Sherlock sighs a heavy breath and again turns out to face the window.

Sherlock sighs and sets his head back onto the rest. The loony bin. How lovely.


	2. Chapter Two

The waiting room is spotless. Sherlock wonders how on earth it could be so but then stops the wonder. 'It's a mental hospital they can do anything they please' he thinks to himself.

"Mr. Holmes the doctor will see you now."

Excellent. Just marvelous.

Sherlock stands with a quick glance to his mother and follows the stout old lady who called him to his doctor. She leads him through a worn wooden door and the two set off in an extraordinarily long hallway. Sherlock notes the cleanliness of the hallways as well. They must be cleaned often. But why do they always have to be cleaned?

The stout little women leads him to a door not to far from the last and knocks thrice.

"Come in." A weathered old voice calls. The nurse gives Sherlock a look as if to say 'well go on'. Sherlock turns away from her and with a sigh opens the doctors door.

The first thing about the doctor that Sherlock notices are his eyes. They have an old wise spark wired into them but underneath lies years of dark circles. The doctors mouth was set into a sad little smile. It made him seem happy to see Sherlock but also tired and weary. 

Sherlock glances about the room for a chair and settles for the one in front of the doctors chair. The nurse closes the door behind him with a loud thump and silence rings through the air.

The doctor runs his eyes over Sherlocks face. Sherlock can feel him judging what he sees, placing thoughts and guesses on whatever features he cares to.

"Why are you here?" The doctor asks settling back into his chair.

"You have my files." Sherlock retorts. The doctor gives him an amused type smile.

"But I would like you to tell me." The doctor says. Sherlock frowns.

"I hear voices." He states lightly as if he was commenting on the weather.

"You hear voices." The doctor mimics. Sherlock nods in agreement.

"What do they say?"

"Loads of things."

"What types of things? Secrets? Rumors?"

"Deductions."

"Deductions?" The doctor questions.

"Deductions." Sherlock confirms. The doctor sits for a moment in silence. He must be thinking. He surely is thinking.

"This, is new." The doctor says putting a pause between the first and second word. Sherlock leans back into his chair and crosses his arms.

Of course this is new. People who hear voices get told government conspiracies or are told that someone's after them. People who hear voices seldom get told facts about other people. Sherlock is a whole new branch on the crazy tree.

"You are still treatable of course." The doctor says waving an old leathery hand in the air.

"Who are these voices?" The doctor asks. Sherlock smiles.

"Two male one female." He says like he is the proud mother of three children. 

"Do these voices have names?" 

"Colette, Jim, and Arty."

"Do they live in your head?"

"They live in a palace in my mind. It's quite beautiful actually. That part I don't really mind." Sherlock explains. The doctor smiles. 

"Of course." The doctor says lightly. 

The doctor closes his eyes for a brief second and then opens them. 

"Why did you request a room away from the others?" 

"Pardon?" Sherlock asks. This question is a bit off the track from where they were headed. The doctor asked the question as if it was pestering him. 

"Are you afraid of the other people here?"

"I don't know what you're asking."

"Yes you do."

Now it is Sherlocks turn to close his eyes to avoid the doctors. He doesn't want to be with the others. The others are insane. Spiraling fools with diseases. Sherlock was flirting with sanity and being tainted by the others in this hospital might make him crazy too. He could not risk being insane.

"I don't want to become insane." Sherlock answers in a slow deep tone. The doctor leans forward.

"You don't want to catch the crazy?" The doctor asks. Sherlock nods. Laughter erupts the the doctor leans back and let's out another fit of giggles.

"Oh mister Holmes." The doctor says between a fit of laughter.

"You cannot catch crazy I assure you."

Sherlock is offended now. He has been laughed at hundreds of times but not by someone who is supposed to help him. More than anything the doctors actions are just plain rude. 

"Son, I've been working here for twenty years. Talking to the insane, forcing medication down throats. It's not that bad. I'm as sane as any person who never has to visit these hospitals." Says the doctor after his laughing fit was over. But Sherlock can't help but to not be convinced.

"Now tell me about yourself Mr. Holmes." The doctor says. The doctor folds his marvelously wrinkled hands together and places them on his desk.

"Anything you want to tell me." The doctor says with an air of finality. Sherlock thinks about lying to the doctor, about exaggerating every little aspect of himself he can procure. But he got the feeling that if he were to lie the doctor would know he wasn't telling the truth.

"My favorite color is blue." He says. The doctor gives him a stern look before bursting into laughter yet again. The tired look in his face fades for a moment into the laughter. Sherlock sits staring at him confused. What did he do wrong now?

"Oh, my dear boy." The doctor starts. 

"I don't care about simplicities like that."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asks. The doctor gives a little chuckle again. Sherlock is getting extremely annoyed with this mans laugh.

"What do you want to do Mr. Holmes, what are your aspirations? What makes you, you?" The doctor answers. Sherlock doesn't give a moments hesitation before answering.

"I want to be sane."

The doctor smiles.

"I think you'll fit in quite splendidly here Mr. Holmes." He says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapters a little bad. But thank you guys for the support it means the world to me. :)


	3. Chapter Three

'Well isn't this nice' Sherlock thinks to himself. He listens as a nurse informs his mother about the treatment they would be giving him. "They " being the looney bin. 

"We're going to have to keep him here." The nurse explains. 

"Why can't you just give him some medicine and let him come home?" His mother asks. Sherlock can't help but wonder the same thing. The doctor informed him that he would be amongst the crazies and Sherlock wasn't exactly packing the floor wanting to meet them. But Sherlock knew he would be staying here. He watched as his mother checked off the box for in hospital treatment. She thought he couldn't see her put down the request.

"The doctor would like to monitor him considering the fact that he is a new patient and might be unstable the first. We would need to get a blood test before we start his medication, if that is okay with you Mrs. Holmes." The nurse explains. Sherlock's mother nods her head and then turns to her son.

"They'll take good care of you dear." She says, as if he needs some sort of comfort before being taken into the hospital. He doesn't. 

"Oh I'm sure of that." He responds. He winks at the nurse and she frowns at him.

"We're going to take him back now for the first blood test." The nurse says. Sherlock stands and turns to his mother.

"Go ahead." She answers. Sherlock turns to face the nurse and the two set off again past the wooden doors and through the bleach hallways. The nurse leads him down the same hallway as the doctors office was but then makes a turn. Sherlock follows and notices a slight rustle of human interaction through out this hallway.

"This is where the patients stay." The nurse announces. Ah yes, his first minute introduction to the crazies. Subtle conversation.

They continue to walk through this hallway until the nurse stops in front of yet another wooden door. Sherlock wonders if this is going to be a reoccurring theme with the doors. He can't help but think that they are a huge waste of trees. Precious oxygen. Now in door form. 

The nurse turns the knob and hits the light switch inside of the room.

"Go ahead and have a seat in that chair in the middle Sherlock." She orders. The hospital room is like it's hallways, bleached and white. The smell of the air is tinged with soap and heavy cleaning product. Sherlock obeys the nurse and sits in the leather chair. The nurse busies herself fixing needles and a bag for the blood. She turns to him and asks him to hold his arm out for her.

"Why can't you just poke the needle in?" He asks as she pokes around his veins. He is slightly on edge. He prefers to keep all human contact to a minimum, especially from thirty something year old mental hospital nurses. Also needles are a bit of an issue. He's always hated the sharp sterilized things.

"That's not how it works dear." She responds. She pokes on one vein repeatedly with her finger and gives him a smile. 

"That's a good blood vein. Nice and bouncy." She chuckles. He's heard enough laughter today. She releases his arm and pulls some alcohol wipes from her pocket.

"Always keep these with me." She says. Sherlock wonders why. Maybe other patients need immediate needle to body contact. She grabs his arm and begins to wipe down the area she has chosen to draw blood from.

"Have you done this before?" Sherlock asks. She nods and turns to the counter. 

"Loads of times." She says. Still not completely reassuring. She turns back to him with a needle in her hand. Sherlock decides that now is the time to put his trust within this vein poking stranger.

"You've got to relax now. I'm going to insert the needle and then I'll attach the fluid bag." She warns sensing his tension. Sherlock holds out his arm and nods. He closes his eyes. He breathes in and then out. In. Out.

A tiny pinch is all he feels. He opens his eyes and looks down at his arm. It didn't even hurt. He had been anticipating a bit more, well, pain. But it was nothing. He stares down at the nurses hand around his arm and the needle now lodged within his vein. 

"And now the bag." The nurse says still holding onto his arm. She grabs another little needle type thing and attaches it to the needle already within his vein. 

Sherlock watches as she attaches a blood bag and then stands back to marvel at her work.

"Alright now you just sit here and I'll get that blood out of you." She smiles. Sherlock is still looking down at his arm. It feels a little bit tingly now. He's a tad light headed. The needle doesn't seem so interesting anymore. 

"Are you alright dear?" The nurse asks. Sherlock continues to stare down at his arm. The needle protrudes from his arm in a menacing way. He never liked needles. Never.

"Dear?" The nurse says stepping closer to him. Sherlock looks up at her before leaning his head back against the white leather of the chair, struck down by faint.

 

John

He looks down at the pills in his tobacco stained hand. John wonders whether it would be easier to swallow all of them at once or one at a time. He needs to take all of them if he wants to die.

John decided that after his apple he was going to kill himself. He isn't really sure why, but to him it is better to overdose on pills than to continue living amongst sex noises and a forced career he doesn't want. He isn't depressed. He's just empty. And that's even worse.

John decides to take one pill at a time. He very much doubts that he could swallow them all at the same time. He puts one little white pill in his mouth and dry swallows it. He puts another little white pill in his mouth and swallows it too. He does it again. And again. And again. And again until he manages to swallow thirteen little white pills.

He sits down in the cold brown tile of the kitchen and waits for death to take him. He waits for a couple of minutes. A little light headed he lies down. And then begins to convulse. His mind is thrown into shock. He thought overdosing meant a couple of pills into peaceful sleep. This was prolonging his death. 

John is terrified now. He can't stop seizing and now his mouth is foaming. He can feel the liquid rising up his throat.He can't control his mind or his body anymore. He sends out a prayer to every god or spirit he's every heard of in a vain attempt to stop seizing. But he is-was training to be a doctor. He was logical. The only thing that could stop his seizing is medicine not prayers. 

And that's the last thought he has before a darkness he is sure is death overcomes him.

Sherlock 

The sound of chit chat wakes Sherlock up. He's heard his name being said thrice and that's enough times (for him at least) to get his attention and raise him out of his slumber. 

"Hello mum." He says in his low baritone voice. He is still in the chair he passed out in. He glances down at his arm and is glad to see that the needle has been removed and replaced with a bandage. His mother hovers over him on his right side and the nurse to his left.

"Hello dear." His mother greets. The nurse looks down on him and gives him a smile. 

"You never told me you were afraid of needles." She taunts. Before Sherlock can retort the nurse holds up a bad of red.

"Still managed to get some out of you though." She chuckles. She wiggles the bag around and the red sloshing of his blood makes him feel a little light headed again.

"What was your name again?" He asks attempting to get onto a different topic. 

"Eleanor." The nurse answers. She extends her hand down to him and he accepts. 

"They told me when you were out that I would be your nurse for however long they decide to keep you." She says. Sherlocks mother smiles at him.

"She's very nice Sherlock. We were talking while you slept." His mother announces. Excellent. Now his mother was on a first name basis with his nurse.

"You can get out of the chair now dear." Nurse Eleanor tells him. Sherlock pushes himself out of the chair and stands next to his mother. 

"I just need to run this over to the lab and then we'll get you your paperwork." Eleanor says. She walks with his blood in her hand and leads them back to the waiting room before disappearing into the hallways.

"Everyone here is very nice. They seem to care a lot." His mother says. Meaningless comfort. He would still be amongst the insane. It doesn't matter if the staff are nice what matters is whether the crazies will mind their manners.

"Whatever you say mother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that happened.


	4. Chapter Four

Waking up with eyelids of sand John scans the room around him. And then realises he is breathing. And that his heart is beating, the monitor next to him loudly implying. 

John is alive but God, he really wishes he wasn't.

He puts a heavy hand over his heavy heart just to confirm it's true. And sure, enough under his rough palm, there is a steady heart beat. Deep and echoing in his ears. Mocking him. His aliveness. 

"UGH!!!!" He bellows in angry frustration. He throws his fists down on the hospital bed missing his legs by centimetres. He squeezes his eyes shut and let's out another yell. His hospital door flys open and a nurse runs into his room.

"Are you okay?" He asks John. John throws his eyes open and yells with venom," NO I AM NOT OKAY!" 

"What's wrong sir?" The nurse asks obviously concerned for John. John balls his fists up again and stares into the nurses eyes.

"I am supposed to be dead." He says through clenched teeth.

 

Sherlock

Arriving at the mental institution Sherlock can't help but notice how quite it is. Occasionally the phones ringing disturbs the receptionists pen scratching but other than that, silence. 

"My poor baby." Sherlocks mother croons. Sherlock looks over at her and then stares back in front of him. The suitcase by his feet jostles as the door to the hallway opens and Eleanor steps out.

"Come on mister Holmes, lets get you to a room." She announces. Sherlock gives one last look to his mother before grabbing the suitcase at his feet.

"Goodbye mum." He says. His mother stands and rubs her hand on his back.

"You'll be okay here." She assures him. Not for the first time. Sherlock is beginning to think that this is all she is good for. Reassurance. Also signing off mental hospital stays. 

Sherlock and Eleanor disappear into the hallway, not for the first time and not for the last. 

"You will be in room three with Jerry." Eleanor informs him. Sherlocks head snaps to look at the left side of her face. 

"I was under the impression that I would be getting my own room." He states. Eleanor chuckles.

"I don't know what or who gave you that impression." She smiles. Sherlocks grip tightens on his suitcase. In his head he pictures a loony, wild staticky hair, bright yet insane eyes. And of course yelling and drooling. 

"Jerry isn't that bad." Eleanor explains as they make a turn down the hallway. 

"He has severe depression, he isn't some loon like you think he is." She continues. They stop at (get this) a wooden door with a bronze three painted on its surface.

"Open the door Sherlock." Eleanor orders. Sherlock holds out a hesitant hand before twisting the door knob and entering the room.

 

John

"I refuse."

"John you're going."

"No I am not." 

"Yes you are." His father concludes. John turns his head to face the wall. He is acting like an angry toddler whose father won't let them ride the dog into the park

"It won't be that bad." His father continues. He takes a seat on the edge of Johns bed and nudges Johns back.

"John look at me." He says. John concentrates on staring at a hole in the wall. It's minuscule. Not even a mouse could fit through it. But maybe a beetle.

"You're going tomorrow whether you like it or not." His father sighs. John turns to look at him now.

"Fuck you." He states calmly. His father smiles.

"I'm doing this for you." He says. Te bed groans as he stands up and leaves the room, John knowing obviously that he would go chat up the male nurse who had disturbed him earlier. 

After screaming at the nurse for ten minutes John was calmed down and had been told what happened. After he passed out his sister came downstairs (to make a sandwich) when she found him still convulsing on the floor. She being the mighty female warrior she so rightly is, called an ambulance. He had been poked and prodded and unconscious for three days. He had been dead once which ultimately was okay with him but he wished it would have lasted a bit longer. Unfortunately you don't get everything you want in life. Or death.

After being told his poor little suicide story the nurse informed John that he had been diagnosed with clinical depression. That had made John laugh. He isn't depressed. His is just empty of life. Forcibly being kept alive by people who think they know what's best for him.

His dad came in shortly afterwords and told John he was going to a mental institution where they could help him get better. This led to arguing and the rest that followed.

Being told he was going to the mental institution wasn't the worst thing that John had ever been told from his father. Johns father had also told him that he and his mother would be getting a divorce. John was ten. He acted out very similarly to that news as he did to the new news. Old habits do tend to die hard. 

John wonders whether his mother is going to visit him. Her only biological son almost died. Surely that must account for some kind of mom hug or kiss. John fixates his gaze on the door hoping that a little blonde haired woman will come to kiss him and say it's okay. Several hours later he is still staring at the door. She doesn't come.

Sherlock

Jerry is a short and skinny person. Almost as skinny as Sherlock himself but with a bit more muscle. He has scars on his wrists which he attempted to hide at first but soon stopped when he realised there was no point. 

For the few minutes after Eleanor left they each sat on their own respectable beds staring at each other. And then Jerry began to ask questions.

"Why are you here?"

"Voices."

"Are you going to ask me why I'm here?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I already know why.

"Oh."

Jerry stares daggers into Sherlock. Sherlock does the same. 

"You don't drool do you?" Sherlock asks.

"Course not."

"Yelling fits? Maniacal laughing?"

"Only on Tuesday's." Jerry replies.

"Oh so we'll coincide then. Excellent."


End file.
